It began with the television.
I had grown fond of it over the past year. A glowing, rectangular portal that told stories without the hassle of reading. Sometimes there were talking animals. Sometimes there were ancient wizards, but none of them had proper casting technique, which was deeply offensive.
One evening, as Snow pranced around in her sparkly socks pretending to be a ballerina-spy-princess and Father prepared dinner (yes, my father cooks—he makes surprisingly good grilled cheese), I was flipping through the channels.
And then—
A man punched another man so hard he fell over.
And the crowd roared.
I sat forward.
No swords. No demons. No fireballs.
Just pure, distilled, glorious violence.
A repeat match from something called the "Heavyweight Championship." Two men danced around a ring like warriors in a sacred duel, fists raised, eyes locked, every movement coiled with tension.
They struck with precision. They dodged with grace. They bled. They grinned.
It wasn't chaos—it was ritual.
Like a duel between demon generals.
I was captivated.
The next morning over breakfast, I set down my spoon and declared:
"I want to learn boxing."
Father blinked at me from behind his newspaper. "You mean, like... the sport?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "The glorious art of strategic fist combat. Where two warriors seek to break each other's spirits through footwork, timing, and physical domination."
Mother raised a brow. "And where did that come from?"
"The television," I said proudly.
Snow looked up from her cereal, her mouth full of marshmallow shapes. "I saw that too. I liked the part where the guy fell down like boom!" She flopped over in her chair dramatically.
Mother gave her The Look.
Father smiled. "Well, buddy… if you're serious, there's a local gym. They teach beginners."
"I am always serious about combat," I replied. "Even if I must fight without claws, horns, or necrotic flame."
They both stared at me for a moment.
"…Okay," said Mother slowly. "Let's start with a mouthguard."
Oooo
It smelled like sweat, leather, and ambition.
There was no magic here. No glowing runes. No training circles. Just mats, gloves, and the rhythmic thud of fists meeting bags.
I was the smallest person in the room. The youngest by several years.
The trainer—a wiry man named Red, with a crooked nose and arms like ropes of steel—looked down at me with skeptical amusement.
"This little guy's yours?" he asked my father.
I stepped forward. "I am here to learn your sacred art. I will endure the pain. I will suffer the training. I will become unstoppable."
Red squinted at me.
"...Okay, Napoleon. Let's see what you got."
At first, it was… humbling.
I couldn't even lift the gloves without falling sideways. Jump rope made me trip. My punches were soft as pudding. I could command undead armies, but I couldn't do ten push-ups without wheezing like a dying squirrel.
But I kept going.
I learned how to wrap my hands.
I learned the stance—feet apart, knees loose.
I learned the jab. The hook. The uppercut.
Red was strict but fair.
He didn't laugh when I messed up. He just corrected me.
"Balance is everything," he said once. "You lose your balance, you lose the fight."
Those words echoed. In another life, balance had meant power and restraint. On this Earth, it meant not getting punched in the face.
I liked that.
Back Home
Snow was unimpressed.
"So… you just punch people?"
"It's more than that," I said, carefully practicing footwork in the hallway. "It's strategy. It's rhythm. It's about knowing your enemy's timing and turning it against them. It's a duel without death."
She blinked. "Sounds sweaty."
"It is sweaty," I admitted, wiping my brow. "But it's… real."
There were no summoned monsters. No curses. No incantations. Just me. My body. My fists.
And for the first time in this world… that felt like power.
Oooo
Elijah Everstone stood alone in the hallway mirror, his fists taped, his hair still damp from training.
He was almost nine.
Nine years on Earth.
Nine years since the fall of the Demon King Gusoyn.
Nine years since the throne shattered and the abyss closed its jaws on him.
And now?
Now he had dark blonde hair that swept down over sharp blue eyes. His face held that strange contradiction of childhood and something older—like a prince cursed to live in a younger body. His jaw was beginning to square. His shoulders were broader than most boys his age. He was tall—taller than his peers, lean from growth but muscular, each line of definition earned through countless hours of jabs, hooks, and rope work.
He had the body of a warrior.
And the quiet intensity of someone who remembered death.
He raised his fist and adjusted the tape, admiring the curve of new muscle along his forearm.
Then, a knock on the door.
"Hey, champion," came the familiar voice of Snow—his sister, now ten, and endlessly irritating. "Mirror still not in love with you yet?"
He opened the door, expression perfectly flat. "I was meditating on my stance."
"You mean flexing."
He gave her a sidelong look. "Jealousy is a weak emotion, Snowflake."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't call me that."
"I will call you what your aura demands."
"Stop talking like a cursed vampire from Mom's books."
"Stop acting like a side character."
That one hit. Her eyes went wide with betrayal. "Take that back."
He smirked. "Make me."
She threw a rolled-up sock at him. He dodged it without blinking.
Their banter—sharp, ridiculous, and entirely theirs—had become a daily dance. Beneath the snark and verbal jabs was a strange, unspoken truth:
She was the first person he had ever truly shared a home with.
Oooo
Dinner was warm. Literally and figuratively.
Ava was stirring her homemade chili at the stove, humming some old song from the '90s that made no sense to him. George sat at the table, folding laundry while narrating each shirt like a sports commentator.
"And this—a surprise contender in today's rotation, the blue flannel, makes a strong comeback after being lost under Elijah's bed for three weeks. Incredible recovery!"
"Dad," Elijah muttered, "you sound like a sock puppet on a bad cable show."
George grinned. "Thank you. I take that as a compliment."
Ava turned and placed a warm bowl of chili in front of him, ruffling his hair. "Careful, it's hot—just like your last match, mister undefeated."
Elijah sat down, expression softening for a moment. "Thanks, Mom."
He rarely said it. But he meant it. Deeply.
This—this—was new.
In his old life, his mother had been a cold-eyed demoness obsessed with power. She hadn't looked at him as a son, but as a tool—a vessel for legacy and wrath. He had no memory of his father, only whispers that he had been "a fool with good blood" and "nothing more."
But George?
George taught him how to sew a button and wrap his own gloves.
George laughed like the world couldn't break him.
George gave hugs.
And Ava?
Ava read his stories.
Held him when he lost.
Sat beside him when he couldn't sleep, whispering, "You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be real."
Real.
Not a title. Not a terror. Just… Elijah.
He looked at them both. Warm food. Warm home. Warm people.
In a strange way, this was stronger than any magic he had ever known.
Elijah had no friends at school.
He wasn't bullied. No one dared.
But he didn't connect with them. Their games were small, their voices loud. Their dreams were built of cartoons and candy, not conquest and strategy.
They called him "the quiet kid" or "Everstone the Stoneface."
Once, a boy named Brian tried to befriend him during recess.
"You wanna play tag?"
Elijah blinked. "What are the rules?"
Brian looked confused. "You just run around and tag people."
"That's... it?"
Brian nodded.
Elijah considered it. "Seems like a game designed to waste stamina and promote herd instincts."
Brian never asked again.
And that was fine. Elijah didn't need them. Not yet. He had his family, his fists, his focus.
He watched the other kids play, laughing and screaming, and sometimes—only sometimes—he wondered what it would feel like to belong in that chaos.
But the thought would pass. It always did.
Elijah stood by the window, the lights of Brooklyn glowing like a restless constellation below. He was almost nine.
He could throw a mean left hook. He knew the capital of every country. He read books twice his grade level. He understood silence, and how to use it.
And deep inside, where the last embers of Gusoyn still flickered…
He felt peacefully dangerous.
His body was no longer a prison—it was a forge.
His home was no longer a battlefield—it was his.
His name was no longer a curse—it was becoming something powerful.
On December 7th, he would turn nine.
He didn't know what the future held.
But he would meet it not with fire and fury…
…but with discipline, wit, and a right hook that could level kingdoms.